The cart rattled along uneven streets while Aelia, still quite queasy, sipped from a waterskin that Henry had offered. How, she wondered, had she ended up being persuaded to ride in this… this death cart? But the truth was she’d vomited out the last of her energy and her legs were as heavy as iron-trees. She’d had no choice but to let Henry help her up onto the seat.

He seemed to have heard of Whit Street, so at least they wouldn’t be getting lost. With any luck she wouldn't be riding here for more than a quarter-hour.

Gingerly, she brought an arm to her face and sniffed. Bad idea. The stink of decomposition had followed her from the blanket. Or maybe not; maybe it just always hung around the cart like a bubble of soured perfume and it wasn’t that her skin and clothes had been infused by it at all.

Either way her stomach gurgled. She took another sip of lukewarm water.

The cart came to a sudden halt and Aelia rocked forward, almost falling off the bench. "Can you drive any less jerkily?"

But her annoyance melted away when she saw why they’d halted.

A knight in full plate armor (a real knight, not a city guard!) was on a white stallion, stopped in the street with his hand held up to Henry.

Behind the knight, a long row of chained men and women were being led across the street by two other knights. The chained peasants (those poor people) wore very few clothes, and what they did wear was torn or holed. None wore shoes. A final knight on a muscular brown steed, trotted behind, forcing the peasants to keep a good pace.

“Are they prisoners?” she asked stupidly, already knowing the answer.

“Mmm hmm,” said Henry. He seemed to be busy scouring the prisoner’s faces, his eyes roaming as if making sure he didn’t recognize any.

How cold they must be. Prisoners or not, they were still human. They looked like animals right now though, ragged and manacled together, chains leading from neck to neck.

Seemingly happy that he didn’t know any of the prisoners, Henry turned to Aelia. “They’re being taken to the Necromancer’s kingdom.”

To the Nercomaner? These were citizens of The Stone God, were they not? “Why are they being sent there? Shouldn’t they be taken to the Towers if they've committed a crime?”

"I’m sure they came from the towers,” he answered, as the last prisoner crossed in front of them. “But that was only part of their sentence. Their crimes must have been severe.”

The knight that had stopped them now fell back in line along with his companion at the rear of the prisoners.

Henry raised his reins and whooshed them down. Rupert began to trot.

“Why to the Necromancer though?”

“Did you get your red hair from your parents?” Henry asked, his eyes skirting it. “It’s very unusual. It's growing on me.”

It was unusual and it was from her mother, but she didn’t answer.

Eventually, Henry sighed and said, “It was part of the peace agreement. We send a hundred prisoners to Her a week. Works well for us — keeps the Towers from overfilling and keeps taxes down for the prisons.”

Aelia felt uneasy. “Why would the Necromancer want our prisoners?”

“Can’t work it out?”

She could but she didn’t want to. “Surely not to be killed?”

“Now you’re getting it. Our prisoners become Her soldiers in Her war against the kingdom of the Dark Elf. It’s really win-win for both of our kingdoms.”

“It’s not win-win for the prisoners,” she objected.

He began twirling a string of blonde hair. “Well, no. But they committed their crimes and they got caught.”

The way he said it made the getting caught part sound like the real mistake in his eyes.

“What if they didn’t commit a crime?”

“Huh?”

“What if the guards got the wrong person. Or set someone up that they didn’t like. Or…”

“That’s for the justice tribunal to decide.”

It wasn’t just the afternoon that felt cold anymore. It was the city itself, she thought.

“I think they get it right, most of the time,” he added. As if that was comforting.

She shook her head. “It’s fine. Really. I’m just tired. I’ve journeyed for three days and I think all the excitement at seeing the transformation has enervated me.”

For a while, they traveled in silence, except for the sounds of the streets, of kids playing and adults arguing, and the steady clip of Rufus’s hooves.

“What’s Old Hill like?” she asked.

“Not so bad,” he said. “Whole of the east side of Rhodes has lower crime happenings, so that might make you happy. You’re near the wall there too, so there will always be plenty of guards. ”

She took a deep breath. It didn’t sound terrible, so why did she feel so down? So nervous?

“It’s full of artisans,” he said. “Potters and rope makers and all kinds. I got a beautiful piece from a hatter’s there, a couple of years back. Was blue like the morning sky, with a wonderful peacock feather sweeping up from the front. Really made the fellows envious.”

That perked her up a little. Artisans. It was something exciting, something they didn’t have back home. She could while away many, many hours browsing their wears. She took another sip from the waterskin and noticed her stomach had stopped complaining. Even the air smelled a little better now, as if perhaps it hadn’t just been the cart and blanket, but also the center of the city.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

“Olton. It’s not that far from where you'll be.”

“How old are you? Do you live with your parents.”

“Where did all these questions come from? I'm Eighteen. And no." His voice dropped a little. "I never lived with my parents.”

That was strange, she thought. Surely every baby must live with their parents, at least for a time. But she didn’t press that subject, instead steering the conversation only near to it. “You live alone?”

He shook his head, his blond mane swooping. “Nope. Live with a couple of friends. We share the rent and it just makes sense for us all, at this point in our lives.” He paused then added, “I’ll get my own place soon though. I’m getting paid well doing what I’m doing.”

Not surprising. It was surely a job no one else wanted.

“Tell me about the plague then,” she said.

He flashed her a side-eyed glance. “You sure? I don’t want you throwing up in my cart.”

“I’ve already had that death rag on me. I think I can survive hearing a story. Besides, it would hardly make this thing smell worse. I’d probably improve it.”

He laughed “Maybe. Okay, but there’s not a lot to tell. It started, let me see, a couple months back now, people finding deceased family upon waking, with their arms in the wrong places or their heads missing or—”

“Wrong places?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What do you mean? How can an arm be in the wrong place?”

He shrugged. “It’s what the plague does. I find people all the time with an arm coming out of their throat, or going through their groin. Or a leg doing the same.”

She shivered and must have turned pale, as Henry asked again if she was okay. She nodded and he continued.

“Started with just a few people a week, but now it’s dozens. There are four teams of us throughout Rhodes working the nights, shining our torches on doors and looking for the black cross that the family will have painted on. We take the body from them, slosh a white cross over the black, then once we’re full, we take the bodies to the pits outside of town.”

“Gods…”

“Pays well, like I say. And I got to pick my own horse. And none of us Transporters have caught the plague yet, so I think it’s not transmitted like by contact or proximity. Just seems random. Hah, you’re wishing you’d never come here now, aren’t you? I can see it in your eyes.”

“Maybe there’s a little regret in me,” she answered.

He sniffed back snot and said nonchalantly, “Was easier for me until two nights ago.”

“Why was that?”

“My partner quit. I used to drive, he used to get out and drag the bodies into the cart. Was a much smoother operation and we’d always be done before daylight. Last couple of nights have been tough.”

“Well I’m sure they’ll find you a new partner soon”.

“I sure hope so. Hey! If you need a job, I can put in a good word with the Gray Mortuary for you. It’s not as bad as--”

Aelia raised a hand. “Thank you, but I get recompense for my studies at the academy.” If she got accepted, that was. Even with her mother’s gift, her purse wasn’t swollen. Tomorrow, she needed to apply.

“Oh. Of course you do.”

They trotted on in silence for a few minutes, until the cart turned another corner and Aelia saw a wooden sign on the side of the first house. Etched into the wood were the words “Whit Street.”

“This is it,” she said excitedly, her voice barely above a whisper. Nerves were turning to excitement in her belly.

“What number did you say?”

“Forty-three,” she said. Her cheeks flushed as she added, “I can walk from here though, thank you.”

Henry frowned, then his face fell, just slightly, as if he’d caught it on the way down. “You don’t want them to see the cart you’ve been riding in.”

“No that’s not—” She bit her lip. “Yes, okay. That is it. It wouldn’t be the best impression for my new family if they saw I’d arrived in a death cart. I'm sure you understand.”

“Plague cart.” Henry brought the horse to a stop and jumped down. "Not death cart." He hopped around the side and helped Aelia to the ground.

The street was calm. A few young kids rolling marbles in a group, and a lady standing outside a doorway beating a rug with a broom, dust billowing off it. The houses were thatched and didn’t rest on each other quite as heavily as they did in the center of Rhodes, as if they were less squashed.

She turned to Henry. “Thank you for the ride,” she said, then looked at her feet. “And for... “

“For the stuff with the city guard?”

Aelia looked up and smiled. “Yes. And for that.”

He held out his hand and she shook it again.

“Good luck with your studies, red-headed mage-to-be.”

“You can just call me Aelia.”

He was back in the cart already, but turned around and flashed her a grin. “Goodbye, Aelia.” Then he raised the reins and Rufus let out a gently whiny as he turned, the cart in tow, and trotted away.

Aelia was on her own again.

That was okay. She was good on her own. At her best.

She took a deep breath, shrugged her bag further up her back, and walked the street.

There was even room for the occasional tree here (which was somewhat homely), and she passed two broad oaks, their leaves green and golden, as she made her way to number forty-three.

The sign outside the house sent a little thrill up her spine. She hadn’t realized from their letters that the place she would be staying was itself a shop. An artisan's.

She thought she could already hear the house’s ticking heartbeat before she’d walked down the little stone-paved front garden.

Whit Street Watches (and other assorted wind-ups)